i stare forlornly at the mirror, heavily saddled with the reality that I do not have another “Dis how chicken ____” joke in me. I search the weeded over back alleys of myself, but it’s like trying to pour a shot out of an empty liquor bottle.
My thoughts turn to fantasy: In another world, I win the lottery and can afford Joanna Krupa as my wife. We have sex every night in the missionary position, and I force her to say “Dis how chicken fuck”. She doesn’t understand my proclivity for the phrase. “Americans” she thinks to herself, yet she loves the phrase, because it always brings me home.

Then a singular reverie that pulls my consciousness back to earth: What if there is another Krupa joke? What if there’s one more in there? Hope dawns. Perhaps, Much like the proverbial chicken egg itself, I could pull it out of my ass.